Page 35 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

:Just okay?

What's up, Zig?

Ziggy:Nothing.

Just busy.

:Alright, well, if

you need anything, you know

where to find me.

Ziggy:Sure

Despite my efforts, the unasked question hangs heavily in the air, a silent weight pressing down on me. The next day, I try to focus on my work, throwing myself into my reporting. But every time I check my phone, there is a message from Elliot. Each one making my heart ache a little more.

:Just saw a picture

of you on Twitter. Looking hot,

as always.

His words are meant to be playful, but they only fuel my anxiety. How many other girls is he telling that to? Do I care? I don't want to care, but for some godforsaken reason, I do. Something deep down doesn't want me to end up as justsomeone he is passing his time with. Until he no longer wins and moves on to the next girl. The more I think about it, the more I realize I need to talk to him to find out where we stand. But the fear of ruining what we have—whatever it is—keeps me silent.

Lying in bed, I feel my worry compounding the anxiety within me, making it impossible to sleep. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Elliot, wondering what he is doing and who he’s with. The exhaustion is overwhelming, both physically and mentally. Just as I am about to give up and try to force myself to sleep, my phone buzzes with a text.

:Call me?

Despite my better judgment, I don't resist. I dial his number, and soon, his familiar voice fills the silence.

"Hey," his voice, warm and familiar, rings through me. "I needed to hear your voice."

We talk for hours, the conversation flowing effortlessly, touching on everything from our favorite movies to childhood memories. It feels almost as if we are more than just friends with benefits, and for a moment, the anxiety melts away, replaced by a warmth I don't want to acknowledge. But one thing is clear: something has to change. I just don't know if I have the courage to make that change happen.

Chapter 28

Something is off with Ziggy. Lately, her responses have been terse, almost cold. I don't get it. The last time we were together, everything was good. The sex was great, and even when we weren't together, we were talking more. I rack my brain for some reason why, if anything has happened. I don't understand why she is acting weird and distant. Between games, practices, and recording sessions forHit Behind the Net, I am barely functioning. I’m scraping along, trying to find the time to eat, shower, and sleep. It seems like every waking moment is dedicated to hockey, and when it isn't, my mind is filled with thoughts of Ziggy.

It’s starting to worry me how much Ziggy occupies my thoughts, especially when she seems indifferent. She has my balls in a vice, and it's a problem. I haven’t touched or even thought about another woman since we got together—nothing, nada. Ziggy is all-consuming, and her indifference is pissing me off. It's like she’s cast a spell over me, and no matter how hard Itry to focus on hockey or my podcast, she’s always there, lurking topless in the back of my mind.

In just the few short months since I've known Ziggy, the things I have done for this woman have been nothing short of astonishing. I find myself constantly texting her, calling her, and genuinely wanting to know about her day. It's as if I've developed a genuine concern for her well-being, and that’s the worst part of this whole thing. She has brought pure madness into my life. Hell, I even subconsciously, or perhaps intentionally, got a tattoo for her. Marking her permanently onto my skin forever. There is no way I can let her leave that type of mark any deeper than my skin.

The night of the tattoo was absolutely insane. We had just pulled off an incredible win, the kind that makes you feel invincible. The energy in the locker room was electric. The boys and I were in a new city with nothing to hold us back. We decided to hit the town to celebrate and that led us to a tattoo shop. Once we each had new ink and were riding the high of victory, we ended the night getting stupid drunk. I am not covered in ink from head to toe or anything, but after getting a full sleeve and covering large chunks of my back, side, and abs with tattoos, I am no stranger to impulse decisions. Especially when the group tattoo is just the pregame before the boys and I have a rowdy night out. It seemed like a great idea at the time. In hindsight, they really should have never let us into the shop, but whatever. We all choose to see it as a bonding exercise.

As we laughed and cheered each other on, I stepped away from the crowd to give Ziggy a call. I don't know what I was trying to accomplish with my phone call. I knew we would be seeing each other soon. Not only that, but we would be traveling together for the next couple of games. I wanted to let her know Iwas excited to get back to some semblance of routine with her. I didn't have long before it was my turn to be sitting in the tattoo chair.

"Come on, big boy, it's your turn," the tattoo artist said with a smirk.

Shaking my head, I cut my call short, "Gotta go. Talk soon!" I took my seat in the chair.

Fueled by a dangerous mix of adrenaline, and lust, I lifted my shirt. Before I even knew what was happening, I was pointing at an open space on my lower side and was describing a shark circling the barnacle on the ocean floor. I don't know where the mental image came from, but it felt so right at the moment. Sure, it started as an insult and transitioned into an inside joke, a nod to the nickname she had called me the night we met. But, that very first night had led us to something more, and somewhere along the way, Ziggy, being a barnacle, had become my Anatife.

The morning after the great tattoo incident, I woke up with a pounding headache and a bandaged side. It was uncomfortable at first, sure. But as the days passed and the tattoo healed, I felt a strange sense of pride about it. It was a reminder of that wild night but also of her, forever. While I would never regret my decision to get the tattoo, I'm not sure if I'm ready to really think about what led me to etch Ziggy that deep into my life. So, if I'm not ready to have that conversation with myself, I’m certainly not ready to have that conversation with her. For now, I won’t do anything to cover it, but I'm not going to point it out to her. Despite the pride I feel, I'm not sure if Ziggy will agree. She might freak out, and considering how things have been between us lately, I can't guarantee it's a reaction I’m going to like.

I’m T-minus 8-ish hours away from finally being in the same place as Ziggy again. To be honest, I am stupidly excited about finally having concrete plans to see her again. During the post-yoga rest period of my usual pregame routine, I turn on the sports channel expecting to see a highlight reel of the game or some coverage of Ziggy’s game interviews. There, on the screen, is Ziggy, her radiant smile and easy confidence unmistakable, looking hot as hell. She stands in the postgame interview area, microphone in hand and wearing a jersey. My blood runs cold as I see her wearing another man's jersey. And it isn't just any jersey—it is the jersey of the New Jersey Reapers forward, their star player.

The footage shows Ziggy interviewing him after their win, her voice professional and composed. But all I can focus on is the way she looks in that damn jersey. My fists clench involuntarily. I want to rip my couch apart. I try to push down the surge of jealousy and anger, telling myself it is just an interview, just part of her job. But the image of her in another man's jersey keeps flashing in my mind, taunting me.

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